


Toxin

by TheVioletHour (TinternAbbey)



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Dennis in North Dakota, Gen, but no spoilers for the new season, fairy tale references, post Dennis' Double Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-21 00:15:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16148546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinternAbbey/pseuds/TheVioletHour
Summary: And he feels smug all of a sudden, as the apple skins slip down his throat. His old life can't touch him here. He'sallowedto eat the skins, toxins be damned.





	Toxin

The first time he eats lunch at Mandy's place, she gives him apples with the skins left on. Red and shiny, like in _Snow White_ —which Brian Jr. is watching on the kitchen TV.

Dennis has always been partial to that story himself. There's something exquisiteabout a dead girl in a glass coffin, ruby lips waiting for a chance lover to revive her. He wouldn't mind being the witch offering tainted fruit to the young and the vulnerable—or perhaps the prince, caressing her cold flesh in the middle of the woods—but the thought of poison slipping past his _own_ throat casts a shadow over that fantasy.

Of course Mandy wouldn't poison him. He _knows_ she wouldn't poison him. But his hand reaches instinctively for a knife, while his mind can practically _hear_ Mac's voice, warning him about the toxins.

Until Mandy gives him a curious glance; a certain tilt of her eyebrows that makes him wish he'd burned Paddy's to the ground.

His hand retreats.

He bites hard into the apple. Crunching, savoring.

Swallowing.

And he feels smug all of a sudden, as the apple skins slip down his throat. His old life can't touch him here. He's _allowed_ to eat the skins, toxins be damned. Probably bullshit anyway; just another delusion in a long list of fallacies that make up Mac's pathetic brain.

He takes another defiant bite.

And when Brian Jr. cries at the witch on the TV screen, Dennis tells him to relax. It's just a cartoon.

* * *

He sleeps alone that first night.

Which is fine. He _likes_ sleeping alone, without Dee's bony elbows digging into his back. Or Mac on the other side of her, murmuring Dennis' name in his sleep, caught in some dumb fantasy that will never be fulfilled—the sad bastard.

But it's quiet.

Not exactly suburbs-quiet, with all its chirps and whirs and creaks, but nature-quiet. Peaceful-quiet. The sort of quiet that fills normal homes at night, when mothers and fathers go to sleep and children lay down to simple dreams.

But it's not his kind of quiet. He lies awake, vaguely wondering if his throat is starting to close up—or if it's just his imagination. That ridiculous Snow White movie; that's what has him worried. All the nonsense about apples and poison. Maybe _that's_ where Mac gets it from.

He shifts his thoughts in a new direction. Thinks about the girl instead, as he repositions his pillow and tries to get comfortable. A girl with dark hair and deep dark eyes—just barely eighteen, to avoid legal trouble—with a mountain of daddy issues heaped upon her shoulders. Skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood. Cold to the touch as she lies under glass, completely insensible to the world outside.

She doesn't feel it when the prince lifts her coffin lid. Doesn't feel it when he presses a hand to her dead chest, where her cold heart lies still as winter.

Such a beautiful death. Such ruby lips, his for the taking.

But when he moves in for the prize, _he_ feels something. The taste of poison on his tongue the moment he meets her lips. A burning down his throat, bitter acid in his stomach, all of it reeking of apples. Shiny, bright red apples—

—and suddenly the girl is no more. There's only Dennis trapped in a Midwestern home, surrounded by seven little men who all bear a disgusting resemblance to Frank. Rats and birds flit in and out, calling to him with familiar voices, and he's falling... falling into a deep dark chasm with laughter ringing in his ears, his body going cold as the poison feeds on his blood.

One desperate thought rises to the surface of his mind, fighting to be heard:

 _You were right, Mac. You were right, you were right, you were_ —

* * *

He makes it to the toilet just in time, right when the bile comes up and stains his teeth with the remnants of apple skins.

He pukes for a solid minute, until he's left trembling against the toilet bowl, pale and gasping with the worst taste in his mouth. It reminds him of high school; all those meals he coughed up in the hope of becoming prom king.

The toilet flushes. He listens to it in the dark, trying not to imagine if there's poison swirling down the pipes. If there's poison inside him still, lurking in his bloodstream.

 _Mirror, mirror_ , he thinks in half-delirium, seeking the shadow of his reflection. _Who is the fairest of them all?_

 _You are_ , he assures himself, despite the bile drying at the corners of his mouth.

Poison always seeks the beautiful ones.

The journey back to his bed nearly sends him to his knees. Trembling still, he gropes for his phone on the bedside table and stares at the screen. Considers calling Philly—calling _home_ —and hearing a certain voice.

Until common sense kicks in and sends him back to bed, his phone abandoned on the table.

He doesn't need the gang. Doesn't need Mac. 

Dennis is on his own now—and he can peel his own damn apples. 


End file.
